


Telephone Etiquette

by kototyph



Series: Halloween Trick or Treat Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Smutlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Mycroft is smug, John is mortified and Sherlock is appropriately appalled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telephone Etiquette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/gifts).



The phone on the end table buzzes, _again,_ and John groans inarticulate protest as Mycroft's hips slow to a measured, unhurried grind.

"You should really answer that," the man murmurs into his throat, and John tips his head back and glares blearily at the ceiling.

"Not— _nngh._ Not going to answer Sh-sherlock's bloody calls when I'm— _ah!_ Mycroft!"

"He'll just call again," Mycroft says, mouthing hotly at the strained line of John's neck. "And again. And again."

Those circling, circling hips are driving him _mad_ , all heat and no urgency, and John flexes his knees against the damask chair, tries to force a harder rhythm out of the steady low pulse, and Mycroft just chuckles and pins him in place.

John absolutely does not whine.

"He might be in trouble. He might need you. _Answer it_ ," and this man is the devil, the very _devil,_ gaze smug and leonine as he watches John's resolve start to crumble, as he picks it apart with his clever tongue and his cleverer fingers, one hand moving over John's waist and splayed low over his back, seemingly random digits stroking down between his cheeks, sliding forward until his index and middle fingers frame his cock where it pumps leisurely into John's trembling body.

"God," John manages, breathing catching as Mycroft's fingers crook, as they flirt with the slick, drum-tight rim of him. "Oh, _God—"_

The phone is buzzing, and John leans over to grab it, almost drops it his hand is shaking so. "Answer," Mycroft whispers in his ear, voice the smooth sinful richness of caramels and bergamot, and John swallows back a groan as those flirtatious fingers sink into him, the stretch hitting his overtaxed system like a heated brick.

"Hullo?" he tries, breath catching on even that much.

There's a startled silence on the other end of the line, and then Sherlock hissing, " _Tell my brother he's a **bloody pervert** ," _and a sudden dial tone.

"No news to you I'm sure," Mycroft says, and John drops the phone on the floor and lunges for him.

"So help me God, Mycroft," he growls into his mouth, hips twitching under Mycroft's grip, "I know sixty ways to kill a man with my bare hands—"

"My, I suppose I'd better shape up, then," the man purrs. "Floor or bed?"

" _Mycroft—!"_

"The floor it is."


End file.
